Voice Mail Murder

by Patricia Rockwell

  “Can you tell us their street addresses?” she asked, laughing. She wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t do just that. “Of course, Willard. I’ll make you a copy and get it to you today.” Then, speaking softly and seriously, she added, “But please, don’t discuss this with anyone—for your sake, my sake, and the sakes of any innocent people whose voices may be on this recording.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  She now found herself sitting in the front passenger seat of a non-descript black sedan, a crumpled old paper coffee cup under her foot. In the driver’s seat, Detective Shoop sipped coffee from a new paper cup, steam rising up the side of his nose. He guided the car with his left hand, steely eyes on the road. She couldn’t imagine drinking any caffeinated beverage this late in the day. Shoop had called her around five o’clock, just as she was ready to leave. She had glanced out her window to see him standing beside his official cruiser in the Blake Hall parking lot.

  “What if I’d already left for the day?” she questioned, carefully sliding into the front seat of the old sedan. The musty smell made her think of disinfectant and dead bodies.

  “You hadn’t,” he responded.

  “How would you know?” she continued, somewhat annoyed. “You could have called.”

  “I did.”

  “I could have left.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “But you wouldn’t know if you didn’t call,” she responded, getting genuinely annoyed with the man.

  “I’m a detective, Dr. Barnes,” he answered, his face impassive, his voice monotone. “I have a way of finding things out.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” she exclaimed. The man was insufferable. Even so, they were on their way to interrogate the major suspects in the Coach’s murder—something she had pushed him for, so she realized that she’d better just go along with his ingrained habits and adjust. She placed a quick call to Rocky on her cell phone and told him she was running late and not to hold dinner. She didn’t tell him why she was running late.

  “The protective husband,” muttered Shoop, smiling his Cheshire cat grin as she put away her cell phone.

  “At your suggestion,” she glared at him, “if I recall. You always agreed with Rocky when he reamed me out for my attempts at investigating.”

  “It was merely an observation, Dr. Barnes,” he chuckled, “not an indictment.”

  “Sure,” she retorted. “I’ve noticed that you always have some sort of opinion on my marriage. It feels at times as if you and Rocky gang up on me. Maybe it’s because you’re both men. Or both married men. Or are you? I don’t even know if you’re married . . .”

  “Which is as it should be,” he said cryptically. Then he nodded as if agreeing with his own observation.

  “What?” she exclaimed. “What’s as it should be? That I have no information about you or anything related to you? That I know nothing about you? Such as whether you’re married or not.“

  “What do you think, Dr. Barnes?” he asked, glancing in her direction. “Can’t you tell from my voice?” He laughed wickedly, his beady eyes peering at her.

  “You’re impossible!” she concluded, folding her arms and squeezing closer to her window. She stared out at the scenery. This other side of the campus was someplace where she rarely ventured. They drove by a large, three-story brick home, elevated on a large plot of immaculately tended lawn. This, she knew, was the official home of Grace University’s President. It was near enough to campus to allow the school’s top official to have a short commute, but distant enough to keep the man sheltered from the often loud goings-on of the local dormitories and other campus shenanigans. She had been in this home once—long ago when she was hired, along with the dozens of other new faculty members who had joined the Grace University faculty that year. Further down the street from the official Presidential residence, Pamela recognized other homes belonging to major figures at the school. The Dean of her College resided in an old, but graceful two story home on the corner. A large enclosed porch that surrounded the main level gave the house a quaint feel, but Pamela remembered being inside numerous times where the Dean’s massive library took up half of the first floor. He even had one of those rolling ladders that could slide along his built-in bookshelves, allowing him to climb to top shelves for out of the way special volumes. Next door to their Dean, a home of one of the school’s Vice Presidents—the one in charge of Finance, she thought—was equally imposing. She’d never been inside of it, nor was it likely that she ever would be. As a lowly associate professor, she was relegated to living in the boondocks in her pleasant but modest ranch-style, three bedroom home. However, she mused, she was content. She probably wouldn’t know what to do with a home as large as these, anyway.

  Shoop continued to chuckle. She’d probably never learn anything about the man—not that she yearned to do so. However, it appeared they’d be spending some time together—at least today. It would be nice if she had at least a basic working knowledge of her investigative partner.

  “Our first stop is the wife,” he told her, effectively cutting off her reverie. “They know we’re coming. The daughters are there. Did you develop me a personality profile of any of the three women on the voice mail?”

  “They’re all over forty,” she replied, somewhat belligerently. It seemed she was always supplying the man with information—and he was never reciprocating. “The first one and the third one are local, but the second speaker—I mean, second in chronological order on the recordings—is from the Boston area.”

  “Boston?” he asked, his face lighting up. “Now, how do you suppose that happened?”

  “What do you mean, how did that happen?” she screeched. “The woman was probably born and raised in or near Boston. She probably lives there.”

  “If she lives there,” he noted, “how would she get together with Coach Croft?”

  “You forget,” she lectured the policeman, “they do play away games.”

  “So, she’s a floozy he picked up when the team was playing in Boston?”

  “Oh, Detective,” she continued, now definitely feeling the upper hand, “she’s no floozy. This lady is from money. Her accent places her in some of the higher rent districts in upper Bostonian society.”

  “Really?” he scoffed.

  “Really. And your other two speakers. Both are from around Reardon, but quite different. Your first speaker is a lower middle class woman. The third one is a sophisticated, well-educated woman.”

  “Intriguing,” he nodded, musing over the new information. “And that’s all?”

  “That’s all?” she yelled. “I churned that out in a few hours. What have you produced of similar quality?” She neglected to add that Willard Swinton had assisted her with the geographical analyses.

  “Actually, Dr. Barnes,” he said, smiling, “I’m surprised you weren’t able to determine the race of the three women.”

  “Their race? I can’t tell that from their voices.”

  “You can’t tell that our third speaker is an Afro-American?” he questioned.

  “She is?”

  “We do believe.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  “It appears that Coach Croft had his mistresses register for the room when they planned their . . . get-togethers, probably because he was so well-known here in Reardon. Our third lady—Speaker Number Three as you say—and the one we believe was in the room at the Shady Lane Motel with Coach Croft where he was killed, was the one to register. The clerk remembers her as an attractive black woman. She paid cash for the room; that’s why he thought it was strange.”

  “Did the clerk remember seeing her in the past?”

  “No,” he noted, “and, we’re guessing there may be an explanation for that. If you’ll recall, all the speakers mentioned the hotel room number in their messages. The last message said the room was 211 and told Coach to take the outside stairs. This configuration fits the lay-out of the Shady Lane Motel. That is, it would make sense to tak
e the outside stairs to get to Room 211.”

  “I understand, Detective,” she agreed. “Surely, you went back and questioned the clerks about the other rooms in the messages and tried to find other women who registered and were assigned these rooms. Possibly the clerks would remember them and—“

  “Wait a minute, Doctor,” said Shoop, holding up his right hand in her direction. “Way ahead of you. We’ve already done that!”

  “And?”

  “Turns out that the Shady Lane Motel is only two stories.”

  “But one message says Room 360 and there’s one that’s 402.”

  “I know,” he nodded. “And there’s a 228, but unfortunately, the Shady Lane Motel’s rooms only run through 220.”

  “How can that be?”

  “It appears that the Coach and his ladies moved around from motel to motel.”

  “You mean each time they—got together, they went to a different motel?”

  “It appears that way. They were very discreet. Each message on the Coach’s cell phone we traced to a disposable cell phone that was no longer in service. The Coach probably gave each of his mistresses one of these disposables to use to set up their assignations and then had them dump them. The women evidently registered, paid cash, and probably disguised themselves someway. They would enter the room separately and leave separately. They really did everything they could to keep from being discovered. At least, that’s what we’re guessing. It’s a miracle that anyone found out, although the man was juggling at least three different women!”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Detective,” she announced. “Somebody did find out. And it looks like somebody didn’t like what they found.”

  Shoop rounded a corner of a wooded neighborhood. Pamela admired the two-story colonial homes with beautifully landscaped yards. It seemed darker here; the trees, many of them resplendent in fall foliage, hung like a large draped canopy overhead. The detective suddenly turned into a driveway of a white wooden home with dark green shutters. A small, wrought iron jockey beckoned near the concrete front steps. In the driveway, two small foreign cars were parked on one side—one behind the other. The garage door was dark green like the shutters. Over the garage hung a banner in the Grace University colors of red and gold, the words “Go Tigers” prominently displayed.

  “First stop,” he told her, “The wife and family.”

  He wasted no time in getting out of the car, crumpling his paper cup on the way and tossing it in a trash can near the garage. She followed him, grabbing her purse and clipboard, but leaving her thermos and books on the front seat. They stood on the concrete steps of the front entrance. She could hear noises inside and someone talking quietly as they moved to the door.

  “Let me do the talking,” said Shoop in a whisper. “You just stand around and listen—and listen carefully.”

  “Don’t worry,” she assured him, in a like whisper, “That’s what I do.”

  The door was opened by a young woman wearing black slacks and a black turtle neck sweater. Her unkempt but glowing long, black hair maintained the color theme. Her eyes were swollen and red.

  “Detective,” she said, with somber recognition. “My mother and sister are in the family room.” She turned and led the man across a marble foyer and down a step into a thickly-carpeted den. The dark blinds were tightly closed. Pamela followed Shoop, feeling very much out of place and uncomfortable in this house of mourning.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Mrs. Wade Croft, wife of Grace University’s Head Football Coach, was sitting stretched out on a brown sofa near a fireplace. A blue crocheted throw blanket covered her lower torso. Next to the end of the sofa stood a wheelchair at the ready. A younger woman, similar in appearance to the one who opened the front door, was sitting beside her mother, her head on the older woman’s shoulder.

  “Detective,” called out Mrs. Croft in the dim light, extending her hand. Shoop moved forward, briefly shook hands, and then moved back a few paces.

  “Mrs. Croft,” he spoke softly. “We’re sorry to bother you again. I realize that the last questioning session was probably very—draining.”

  “If your questions will help find Wade’s killer, Detective,” she said, staring directly into his eyes, “I will stay here all night and answer them.”

  “Uh, wonderful—“ answered Shoop, “but that won’t be necessary. “ He looked around. The older daughter, who had let them in, motioned for Shoop and Pamela to be seated on arm chairs directly across from the sofa. “Mrs. Croft,” he said to the older woman, “and Miss Croft . . . Miss Croft . . . . “ He nodded to each of the daughters. “Actually, I have something I would like you to hear and get your reaction.”

  “Our reaction?” asked the mother. She pulled the afghan tighter around her body. Her fingers clutched a mangled tissue.

  “Detective,” said the older daughter, still standing. “Is this really necessary? My mother has been through so much already. Must you bother her with this . . . whatever?” The younger daughter gave a muffled moan and cuddled up closer to her mother.

  “It won’t take very long, Miss, just a few minutes—“ he began. “Um, this is Dr. Pamela Barnes. She’s on the faculty of the Psychology Department and is an expert in acoustics. She has assisted us in a number of cases and has been helpful in this new development . . .”

  “Yes, Dr. Barnes,” said the mother from her reclining position, “I believe I’ve read about your helping the local law enforcement a number of times. Do you mean to tell me that you’ve been able to identify Wade’s killer?” She looked expectantly at Pamela, clutching the tissue with both hands. The older daughter gave a small huffing sound and turned away.

  “Do you have to bother my mother with this . . . new development, Detective?” interjected the older daughter.

  “Elizabeth,” scolded the mother. “Please. The detective is trying to help us. He’s trying to find out who did this to your father!”

  “It won’t help us!” yelled Elizabeth, suddenly. “It won’t clear Dad’s name! It won’t bring him back! What good is it?”

  “Please, Elizabeth!” cried the younger girl from the sofa. “Please! Just do what Mother wants!”

  “Oh, for God’s sake!” sighed Elizabeth, crossing her arms and squeezing her arms so tightly that Pamela thought liquid would be forced out of her pores.

  “Elizabeth,” continued the mother. “Emily is right. This is what we have to do now for your father. It’s our duty to help the authorities find this person who did this! For him! For others who might be at risk from this killer.“

  “Really, Ma’am,” suggested Shoop, “it’s very simple. I play a very short recording of some people speaking and you—any of you—tell me if you recognize any of the speakers.” He looked around at all of the women in the room.

  “You think one of these people killed Wade?” asked Mrs. Croft.

  “We don’t know,” he replied, “but you should be aware that the speakers you’ll be hearing were recorded on your husband’s cell phone that we found at the murder scene.”

  “His cell phone? They’re women,” ventured Elizabeth, tenuously. “More than one?”

  “Yes,” replied Shoop. “Do you think you can do this?” He looked from one woman to the other.

  “We don’t have any choice,” replied Mrs. Croft. “Is the . . . is the language rough?”

  “No, it’s fairly innocuous,” he said. “Wouldn’t you agree, Dr. Barnes?”

  She had faded into the background and now Shoop was demanding that she make her official presence known.

  “There’s no foul language,” Pamela agreed.

  “Then, play it, Detective—“ said Mrs. Croft, “and we will all three of us listen carefully and see if we recognize any of these . . . women.” Pamela could see the difficulty she had in admitting to herself that her husband had not only been cheating on her, but doing it with more than one woman. Pamela could only imagine how she would cope if she discovered that Rocky was having o
ne affair—let alone three.

  Shoop opened his overcoat and removed a small CD player from his inside pocket. The CD of the voices was obviously already within. Shoop pressed a button on the device and immediately the recording of the Coach’s cell phone messages began to play.

  “I’m really excited to see you. I’m here, just like you said. Can you come over?”

  Pamela could hear the intense breathing of Elizabeth Croft as she stood in front of the fireplace, looking straight ahead, nostrils flaring. The mother had a softer look—as if resigned—and glanced over to the youngest child from time to time to see how she was responding to the recording. The girl Emily seemed forlorn and sad. The three women were different portraits in grief, thought Pamela.

  Finally, “Second floor. 211. Take the outside stairs.”

  “That’s it,” announced Shoop, placing the small unit back inside his overcoat. Pamela was getting hot in this room with her jacket on; she wondered how Shoop interrogated people and never removed his overcoat. She guessed he used it like a magician—to produce his special effects—like this recording—from time to time.

  “I don’t know any of these women,” announced the older daughter Elizabeth, with a sneer immediately after the recording finished. “And I’m sure my mother wouldn’t know any of them either.”

  “Is that right, Mrs. Croft?” asked Shoop.

  “I’m thinking,” said Mrs. Croft. “No one jumps out at me right away.”

  “So you don’t recognize them?”

  “Maybe some of them seem vaguely familiar . . .” said the mother, her face a contortion of lines.

  “You mean you think you’ve heard these women before?” asked Shoop.

  “I don’t know,” she replied.

  “Detective,” said Pamela, jumping in. “Let me suggest that voice recognition is an extremely difficult task—even if you know the name of the person you’re trying to identify. In this case, we have no idea of the person—or person’s name—that we’re looking for.”